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The Gathering at Gloamwood came together on a dusky evening when the light turned red at the wood's edge and the old ones drew close. Here a family of driftwood spirits huddles as one—a small capped fellow with wondering eyes, a bearded elder worn silver by rain, and a little black-and-white bird keeping watch from above. Dried blooms of deep wine and clinging moss soften their weathered faces, and a single glass lantern glows among them. They lean together the way stories do when told around a fire. This is the keeper of kinship, reminding us that the truest warmth is found not alone, but gathered close with those who weathered the same storms.
The Gathering at Gloamwood came together on a dusky evening when the light turned red at the wood's edge and the old ones drew close. Here a family of driftwood spirits huddles as one—a small capped fellow with wondering eyes, a bearded elder worn silver by rain, and a little black-and-white bird keeping watch from above. Dried blooms of deep wine and clinging moss soften their weathered faces, and a single glass lantern glows among them. They lean together the way stories do when told around a fire. This is the keeper of kinship, reminding us that the truest warmth is found not alone, but gathered close with those who weathered the same storms.